


equality and exasperation

by boom_goes_the_canon



Series: schemes of snowfall [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Canon Era, Enjolras' Ethereal Beauty, Fluff, Grantaire Relates Too Much to Random Objects, Grantaire being Grantaire, M/M, Metaphors, Pining, Sharing Clothes, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:33:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28047738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: “You cannot just go to this meeting by yourself. It’s not up for debate,” Courfeyrac is saying. “The streets are dangerous at this hour. For God’s sake, Bossuet nearly got knifed.”Bossuet waves from the corner. “Joly says I should make a full recovery if I don’t get gangrene. He gives me good chances.”Courfeyrac crosses his arms. “We can’t have you running around with a knife wound in your chest, Enjolras. It drains morale.”“And blood, I imagine,” Enjolras says, dry. “But I am not about to ruin anyone’s plans for the evening,” he says, like the very thought of someone missing an opera on his behalf is offensive.“I have no plans for the evening,” Grantaire calls, hauling himself to a sitting position.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: schemes of snowfall [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023247
Comments: 12
Kudos: 62





	equality and exasperation

Grantaire doesn’t admit to any beliefs, but he knows, deep in his heart, that it’s not quite true. He believes, for example, that the world is a horrible place, that wine and cheese should be cheaper, and that it is profoundly unfair that Enjolras should be blessed with perfect convictions in addition to his perfect appearance.

The whole incident starts as the meeting ends, as poetic as you could imagine. Prouvaire would most likely spin it into a metaphor, but Grantaire is a lot more interested in spinning his wine bottle to see if he can make it dance. It wobbles only a little, and he sits back, disappointed.

There’s an argument building in the middle of the room, and Grantaire drags his attention back to reality. Courfeyrac is rolling his eyes, which means something is probably going to be set on fire, depending on his mood.

“You cannot just go to this meeting by yourself. It’s not up for debate,” Courfeyrac is saying. “The streets are dangerous at this hour. For God’s sake, Bossuet nearly got _knifed_.”

Bossuet waves from the corner. “Joly says I should make a full recovery if I don’t get gangrene. He gives me good chances.”

Courfeyrac crosses his arms. “We can’t have you running around with a knife wound in your chest, Enjolras. It drains morale.”

“And blood, I imagine,” Enjolras says, dry. “But I am not about to ruin anyone’s plans for the evening,” he says, like the very thought of someone missing an opera on his behalf is offensive.

“I have no plans for the evening,” Grantaire calls, hauling himself to a sitting position.

He’s chosen the exact worst moment to say anything, because it also happens to be the exact moment the room—the entire bloody room—goes silent, and everyone is staring, and Enjolras is staring, and Grantaire wants the earth to swallow him whole.

Hell, he’ll take a divine lightning bolt, or an arrow shot through his heart for his hubris. As long as it happens quickly. Please.

“Can you repeat that?” Enjolras says finally.

“I’m pretty sure you heard me,” Grantaire says, because this is a night of bad decisions. He hauls himself up to more of a sitting position, the better to let Enjolras tower over him.

“Are you offering?” Enjolras says, raising a single perfect eyebrow.

“Only if you accept, of course. If not, I was just stating a fact.” He crosses his arms. “Nothing wrong with stating a fact.”

Enjolras shakes his head, and massages his temples, as the rest of the Amis start debating whether or not it’s a good idea for them to go. Proponents of the idea state that Grantaire has significant fighting skill of his own, and his drunkenness and general misanthropy could also scare away potential attackers. Opponents say that Enjolras would be more likely to kill Grantaire and bury the body before they got anywhere near the meeting, and that would take up valuable walking time.

“We have to admit that the positives outweigh the negatives,” Combeferre says. “In any case, if Enjolras does end up killing Grantaire, I trust he would be polite enough to inform us of the location of the body.”

Joly lays a hand on Grantaire’s forearm. “You’d let us dissect your body, right? The price of corpses has gone up to twelve francs, and it would be _such_ a help.”

“You’re welcome to my corpse, Jolllly,” Grantaire says, and turns to face the others. “And another thing, why can’t I end up killing Enjolras instead, in this absurd scenario?”

Combeferre rolls his eyes. “Because it’ll never happen.”

Grantaire has to admit he has a point there.

“Take him. You can be sure he’ll keep you safe,” Bahorel says, finally, and Enjolras rolls his eyes and tosses his head back. It’s not even arrogance. That’s the annoying part. Everyone is well aware of how dangerous Enjolras can be, armed and unarmed. Grantaire’s _seen_ him fight once, and immediately said a quiet prayer for the lives of all the punching bags and straw dummies Enjolras had ever practiced upon. The poor things suffer enough.

“Very well,” Enjolras says, in a huff of air. “Grantaire, if you wouldn’t mind?”

So Grantaire gets up, wobbling only a little, and heads to the coat-rack Courfeyrac had procured for the back room. Enjolras is already there, pulling on a sad-looking coat and jamming a similarly sad hat over his lovely curls.

Right. Grantaire hadn’t brought a coat, since he fully meant to pass out at the table in the corner tonight, until Enjolras ruined his plans. Enjolras looks him over and wordlessly strips off his own coat.

“There’s really no need—”

“—I can stand a little cold,” Enjolras says primly.

“I really doubt I’m the same size as you are,” Grantaire says, desperately, and the fact that Enjolras’ coat smells like Enjolras doesn’t affect his decision-making _at all_. “Imagine the mess I’d make of your poor coat, I mean, just look at it.” He takes the coat from Enjolras’ hands and starts to mournfully stroke the worn fabric in full view of the entire room. What is _wrong_ with him?

“I really don’t mind,” Enjolras says, and dear gods above, he looks so earnest, like he actually cares, and his eyes are just a bit too wide, and he looks for all the world like he’s about to clasp Grantaire’s hand and declare that warmth is a fundamental human right that must be distributed equitably. This man will be the death of him, he swears.

“Fine, fine, anything if it will shut you up,” Grantaire says, aiming for ‘exasperated’ and landing somewhere near ‘hopelessly fond.’ He can already hear Joly and Bossuet exchanging bets at the back of the room.

Enjolras actually believes him, the foolish misguided man. “In that case, take my hat too,” he says, placing it on Grantaire’s head carefully.

Grantaire thinks he squeaks. He’s not sure. Somewhere behind him, Bahorel starts laughing, then coughing.

“And my gloves,” Enjolras says, frowning at the ones he has on, and if Enjolras actually gives him the gloves, Grantaire will die. He will drop dead, right here, in front of everyone, without even a last drink to send him properly on his way. He has to say something, anything, even a word, any word—

“—Equality!” he blurts, and really, he just made the situation worse. Great.

“Equality?” Enjolras says.

“Yes, equality,” Grantaire says, putting on his best serious face. “You see, if I have your gloves, _and_ your coat, _and_ your hat, that’s not equal, and I’d hate to wreck your ideals any further, so you see, I cannot accept your extremely generous offer, so—”

“—So I should only give you one glove,” Enjolras says, nodding to himself.

He blinks. “That is not what I meant.”

“No, no, Grantaire, that is _exactly_ what you meant,” Courfeyrac says gleefully, and it is only through sheer strength of will that Grantaire doesn’t scream at him. Beside Courfeyrac, Combeferre nods thoughtfully and when he bends to return to his book, he’s smirking.

Grantaire hates their friends. This decides it, he is breaking all ties, running away from Paris, and living out the rest of his days far away from annoying republicans with ideals and plans to change the world.

“All right,” Enjolras says, and he pulls off one of his gloves. He gives Grantaire a glance, and holds out his hand, like he means to actually put the damned glove on Grantaire’s hand himself, and Grantaire can’t have that.

“Give me _that_ ,” he hisses, and Enjolras lets him snatch the glove from his hand without fighting him for it, so that’s progress, at least.

And finally, finally, they’re on the street, and making their way to the meeting-place. Enjolras walks silently, the light from the hard-working street lamps paling next to the glory of his hair. It hasn’t been cut in some time, because Enjolras loathes distractions, and because Jehan had thrown a funeral for Enjolras’ lost locks the last time he had his hair cut. There had been eulogies, delivered in rhyming couplets, and incense. Lots and lots of incense. They had nearly set the Musain on fire.

“What?” Enjolras says, and Grantaire should really stop staring. “Is there something wrong with my face?”

“No, no, nothing. Nothing’s wrong with your face. It’s a nice face.” Grantaire shudders inwardly. “Very, um, skin-covered.”

Enjolras remains silent, and Grantaire needs to break the silence, so he rambles on about the head that Joly had stolen from his classmate last week, and how Musichetta found it in her hat box, and how she had made Joly return it to its proper owner immediately.

“—Bossuet helped, but that was only because he has no sense of smell,” Grantaire recounts solemnly. “And then Musichetta sent Joly the bill for a new hat box, and so all was well in their household.”

“Well, they didn’t have to lose their heads about it,” Enjolras says, and he makes a truly horrible pun about guillotines that Grantaire refuses to repeat, lest it multiply and the world be overrun with terrible puns from overly-earnest revolutionaries.

“Oh god,” Grantaire says, when he’s recovered enough. “Please never make that pun again.”

“You’ve heard worse puns,” Enjolras protests. “You’ve _made_ worse puns.”

“Irrelevant,” Grantaire says, but he’s grinning, and Enjolras is, too, and their good cheer buoys them through the streets and through the meeting, even as a drunk man stands up, and professes his loyalty to the king, and all future kings, and reveals his royalism in front of everyone else. Enjolras reaches over to Grantaire, squeezes his hand, and Grantaire’s reaction is quite casual, if he does say so himself.

“He is the most obnoxious person I have ever met,” Enjolras whispers, and Grantaire snorts.

“I am offended, monsieur. I am at least twice as obnoxious.”

“No.” The word does not deserve the absolute sincerity Enjolras imbues it with. “No, you are not.”

“I was kidding,” Grantaire mutters.

“I was not.”

“Of course you weren’t.”

By the time the meeting ends, Grantaire has given up convincing Enjolras that he is the scum of the earth, and Enjolras looks insufferably proud about it. He even introduces Grantaire to the leader of this particular group, and Grantaire does his best not to be too much of an ass.

The snow is falling when they finally leave the building, and Grantaire pretends not to stare at Enjolras. In his defense, the man is fascinated and wide-eyed over mere snow-flakes. It is hard not to look, and be amused.

“Are you all right, or do you need a moment to gaze at the world in poetic admiration?” Grantaire asks, finally.

Enjolras shakes himself. “No, no, we should go.”

And as they pick their way back to the wider, more established streets, Grantaire becomes steadily more aware that people are following them. Enjolras tenses beside him and his grip on his cane—weighted with metal ever since the incident with the roast chicken—is tight.

“Three men,” Grantaire reports, glancing back at the shadows behind them. “Should we try to lead them astray?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “We fight,” he says, and before Grantaire can agree, Enjolras turns and swings his cane.

The fight is insultingly short. The first man flails to throw a punch, and somehow knocks the second into the path of Enjolras’ cane. The third slips on the snow and ends up kicking the legs of the first from under him. Grantaire doesn’t even get a blow in, and limits himself to kicking half-heartedly at one unconscious body.

“That was pathetic,” he whines, nudging the third man with the toe of his shoe. “It wasn’t even fun.”

Enjolras frowns. “I do not think it was meant to be fun.”

“Nonsense. Take Bahorel, for example. Starts at least two fights before dinner for his afternoon entertainment. Good for the digestion, he says.” Grantaire snatches up Enjolras’ battered cane. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

He bonks one of the unconscious men on the head. The man’s wig comes loose, and drops to the ground.

“Entertainment!” Grantaire proclaims. “Here, you try. Aim for the nose.”

“I’m afraid I must decline your, ah, extremely tempting offer.” The corners of his mouth are twitching. “Regrettably.”

“Ah well, it’s not for everyone,” Grantaire says, returning the cane with a flourish and a twirl. His coat—Enjolras’ coat—billows out behind him. The coattails are quite longer than Grantaire is used to, and they smack his knees.

“Indeed.” Enjolras seems to be staring at his face, which is absurd, because Grantaire’s face is not a face worthy of staring at.

“My face not up to your standards?”

“No!” Enjolras says, putting his hands up in surrender. “It’s just, you have some blood there, and I didn’t know you were hurt—” He steps closer, brushes a thumb over Grantaire’s cheek, and frowns at the blood on his thumb like it is the symbol of the people’s oppression and should be vanquished immediately.

Grantaire does a good job of ignoring the sudden blaring of his brain and the overreaction of his heart. “I’m not hurt,” he babbles. Enjolras is still glaring at the blood. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Good. I would hate to see you killed.”

“I would hate to be killed, so we agree on that, at least.”

Enjolras laughs at that, and as if this evening isn’t already bizarre, he takes Grantaire’s arm. “Come on, I’m walking you home.”

“Excuse me, I was not aware I was being courted—”

“—the streets are clearly dangerous. I am not leaving you to fend for yourself. Really, Grantaire, it is just good sense.”

Taking Enjolras half an hour’s walk away from his own lodgings is not exactly good sense, and Grantaire has been walking home by himself for years without issue, but Enjolras insists. There is not much Grantaire can do against an Enjolras who insists.

By the time they finally arrive at Grantaire’s doorstep, Grantaire has rambled on about the duplicity of clothing, the fickleness of fire and heat, and the sadism of a god who brings snow for its world. For one terrifying moment, he fears Enjolras means to walk him up the stairs and to the second floor, too.

“Well,” Enjolras says, and he sounds quite uncertain. “Good night, Grantaire.”

And before he turns to leave, Grantaire grabs his arm. “Wait,” he says, feeling foolish. “They’ll never forgive me if I let you go home in this snow. Come up and have—” well, he can’t say wine— “a cup of tea and some bread?”

Enjolras fails to hide his surprise, which Grantaire thinks is fair. “You have tea?”

“Prouvaire-approved tea. He insisted on having a stockpile at all times.”

Enjolras smiles. “Well, if it’s Prouvaire-approved…”

“Help me finish it. There’s so much of it.” There were a few jars, stocked in the back of a cabinet for special occasions, but he could be forgiven for exaggerating. “Save me from Prouvaire’s wrath.”

“If you earned Prouvaire’s wrath, you deserve Prouvaire’s wrath,” Enjolras says, but he accompanies Grantaire up the stairs and into his rooms. He sits down on the unmade bed and glances politely away from the empty wine bottles littering the floor.

“Just a minute,” Grantaire says bracingly as he lights a fire in the steadily dampening grate.

“I don’t mind waiting,” Enjolras says. His gaze wanders over the bookshelves. “I can entertain myself.”

Grantaire ends up humming as he measures out the tea and finds glasses that are relatively clean. Enjolras talks quietly of the most recent news, of the operas that Courfeyrac has dragged him to, of everything Feuilly has ever said that week. It’s actually quite nice.

“How do you take your tea?”

“Liquid.”

“With sugar? I don’t have milk.”

“That would be fine,” Enjolras says, so Grantaire undertakes himself to wrestle with a sugar nipper. Enjolras still makes a face when he sips from his repurposed wineglass, but at least he doesn’t look like it is poisoning him with every drop.

“Sweet tooth?” Grantaire asks, waving the sugar loaf in Enjolras’ face.

“Combeferre is worse,” Enjolras shoots back, but he takes more sugar, and Grantaire grins and indulges him. It’s a very small price to pay for the temporary truce.

Or at least, he hopes its temporary. Grantaire doubles back and checks the window. The snow is still coming down.

“Shall I be staying then?” Enjolras asks, with an artless air. Both of his hands are cupping the wineglass now, and he is still making a face at the tea. “After all, I am without coat, hat, and I have only one glove.” He holds up the gloved hand and wiggles his fingers.

“Alas,” Grantaire says, and sits next to him on the bed.


End file.
